


Consummation

by SylvanWitch



Series: Blessed Sabbats [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean embrace the Beltane spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consummation

**Author's Note:**

> May Day, or the first of May, is the day upon which we celebrate the second holiest Sabbat, a fire and fertility festival to celebrate the joining of the God and Goddess, which joining brings all good green growing things to great life.

The earth beneath his feet was damp with the dew that always came this time of year, when the heat of the day bled away into the still-cold night.  He didn’t feel the coolness on his naked flesh, didn’t notice the whip-sharp spark of pain on his calves as he sped by new raspberry canes reaching gingerly across the game trail.  He didn’t feel the winter’s detritus beneath his feet, either.  His mind was on other things.

 

Around him, the forest was alive with tiny sounds, worms in the fallen leaves off the trail, birds shuffling in their stick-strewn nests, burrowing night creatures making their way blindly.

 

Spring peepers in ponds and puddles called to one another—chirrup—cheep, chirrup—cheep—falling eerily silent as he ran past, catching up the call when his shadow passed over their shallow beds.

 

The trees overhead made strange patterns of the moonlight, so he was never certain where his foot would fall.  Sometimes they’d disappear in pools of darkness so deep he thought he might plunge through the earth’s crust. 

 

But his breathing, loudest sound of all, held him to this place, and his feet came firm to the trail every time.

 

When he broke from the forest and into the field of winter wheat, the stalks were so green that they dazzled him and he stumbled, gave a low cry but did not look back to gauge the progress of his pursuer.

 

He’d been trained, so he ran with eyes dotted by moon glinting off the dew-bright stalks.  His ankles were soaked in seconds as he made his more careful way through the irrigation furrow. 

 

Behind him, he heard the stag break the treeline with a snort at catching sight of his prey.

 

Dean sped up, his heart racing, an echo of joy bursting from his chest as he made for the very center of the field where a lone tree stood, testament to older times when people marked the graves of the fallen even while the trail moved ever on to the next mountain on the horizon, the next cloud bank already scuttling up behind.

 

He looked over his shoulder as he reached the security of the tree’s umbrage, broken as it was by new leaves hardly open, heavy pods on twig-ends bursting even as he brushed by the lowest branches, heaving a sneeze up in his chest.

 

The stag laughed out long and low when Dean let go a loud release, and at the sound of glee Dean’s knees weakened and he dropped, head bowed earthward in a parody of penitence.

 

Really, he was just trying to master his breath.

 

He felt the heat of the hunter behind him where he knelt, back to the wide open field, to the sky seeded with early stars.

 

A huge hand wrapped itself firmly around the nape of his neck, and Dean resisted the urge to fight it, to try to look up and over his shoulder.

 

He felt the hunter kneel behind him, felt all that long, lean body pressed to his back.

 

Suddenly, he bloomed in blazing heat, his belly heavy with desire, and he was whole and hard, waiting for the stag to take him.

The hand slid from Dean’s neck to his chest, fingers splayed wide in the region of his heart.

 

He may have groaned.  Laugh, he did when the stag licked a line up his neck to swirl around the delicate arabesque of his ear and say, “Will you lie with me tonight beneath the moon, my love, and bring all the earth to new life?” 

 

Always there was the asking, though the hunter never needed an audible answer.

 

Dean could feel his heart beating against the broad palm, could feel the rhythm of the hunter’s heart against his back.  They matched pulse for pulse.

 

“Yes,” he said, his voice a guttural groan, given over wholly to sensation as the spread hand moved lower, taking in the flat plane of his belly, callused fingertips teasing the trail of soft hair that arrowed down to the root of him.

 

He leaned back, into the wall the hunter made of his body, and said, “Yes,” again, softer, as the hand wrapped itself around his shaft and ran its length, almost too gently.

 

“Yes,” he intoned a third time, completing the ritual, and the hand roughened in its grip, pulling from Dean a choked keening that carried across the open field and echoed off the branches that bent to shelter their joining.

 

A second hand at his back urged him forward onto his own hands, and he curled himself over the confining grip on his aching member to make an arc, thrusting his hips upward to open for his lover, who lay his long heat across his back, claiming him.

 

Between Dean’s cheeks a seeking finger drew a line of fire from the soft skin of his heavy sac to his most secret place, piercing him so that he rocked forward a little into the hand that worked his shaft, then back to be filled now with a second finger.

 

Again, the hunter claimed him, laying kisses down his spine, sucking a love rose above his tailbone before sliding home in one long, hard thrust that drove Dean forward onto his elbows, drove his head down onto his hands, drove from his lungs a rushing noise and then, on the inhale, a scream as his lover struck that place inside him that was made only for him to have.

 

A strong hand drew him up by his shoulder, drew him back against the hunter’s heaving chest, and he rode upward on his lover’s shaft, impaled and impossibly full, utterly given over to the sensation of wholeness.

 

He felt a growing within him, the heat of the sun spreading heavy across his belly, heard his Lord say, “Give your seed to the good green earth,” and he was lost, pulsing in heavy arcs across the moon-spattered ground, leaving a trail that sunk into the satiated earth.

 

Behind him, the hunter groaned, and in a moment Dean felt a second heat fill him, felt the Sun God give over to his passion, prayers pulled groaning from his lips as he made Dean his for another year.

 

The hunter draped his heavy weight across Dean’s trembling back, laughter reverberating through his rib cage to leave Dean’s lips, too.

 

“I told you we shouldn’t mess with a coven on Beltane, Dean,” Sam said several moments later, levering himself off of his brother and pulling gently away.

 

“If I get pregnant, dude, you are so paying child support.  And none of this bushels of first grain and harvest of the hunt crap, either.  Hard cash only.”

 

Sam laughed again and stood up.

 

In the moonlight, he was magnificent, lithe muscles catching moonlight, body painted in shadows as he moved to the verge of vibrant green wheat, stopping there as though he knew what effect it had on his brother to see him so, under the open sky.

 

The moon kissed Sam’s skin like a blessing, and if on his knees Dean whispered a benediction, well, that was probably the witches’ fault, too.

 

 

 

 


End file.
